The following is a flash fiction story. Cold Snow and Hot Chocolate The snow fell as the man poured hot chocolate down his grateful throat. And there…

Cold Snow and Hot Chocolate

So the event of the weekend is clear. Snowapocalypse is here. It is starting slow, but the weather folks tell us not to despair, as it will increase. We Southern Illinois people get excited about snow. We see a little in winter, not a lot. When I was a child, it snowed more. At least that is my misty memory. We constructed large snowmen and had enough raw product to do so. The snow was plowed into sturdy walls on each side of the path to school, and we walked between them unseen from outside the fortress. I had snow boots with buckles that I wore each day. When I had those boots on, I was invincible to the effects of the white powder. I walked with the confidence of the young on snowy and icy paths. Falling down was part of the fun.

Snow removal belonged to a snow shovel. My uncle died shoveling snow. Nevertheless, the young and young at heart shoveled as a rite of life in the suburbs. Snow Days were few and far between in the ’60s. We bundled up and snapped our ear flaps, which were held on top of our hats, under our chins. Mittens were prevalent. Snow was part of winter, and we were tough.

The Old Man’s eyes look back in time to the French Quarter less than two weeks ago. Warm and no snow. The Fine Art Photographer spoke of the unprecedented Snow in New Orleans last January. He had some wonderful photos. We had no need for a sweater or jacket. We were warm with mirth and laughter. Much to see and more to do. Once or twice, it was nearly hot. Then there were the photos of what the French Quarter looked like under the 100-year snow.

‘So it is snowing in the French Quarter, and we are a part of the historic event,’ the Old Man said. ‘Bourbon Street is covered with a white blanket,’ the Old Man continued. ‘The doorman was sweeping the snow away this morning from the front of the Hotel Monteleone,’ the Old man noted. ‘People are laughing and dancing in the snow,’ the Old man laughed. ‘A jazz band marched down Royal Street playing Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,’ the Old Man grinned.

‘Wakey Wakey,’ MJ called out. ‘It is snowing,’ MJ said with joy. ‘I have baked chocolate chip cookies,’ MJ laughed. ‘Hurry before they are all gone,’ MJ danced on one foot and then the other.

‘Perhaps we can get some cookies at the Carousel Bar with our drinks,’ the Old Man suggested. ‘I think you must be referring to last January when the French Quarter received a historic snow,’ the Old Man suggested as he munched a chocolate cookie.

‘We are home, and we are receiving a historic snow, Aaron and Jonathon said in unison. ‘New Orleans was nearly two weeks ago,’ they said.

The weather folks say be prepared to hunker down for three to four days when the snowstorm starts. Given the vastness of the forecast storm, I wonder if New Orleans will receive its second 100-year snow event? Exactly a year apart for the Big Easy.

There is bone-chilling cold in the air ahead of the Snowpocalypses. Mylo takes little note since he rarely goes outside. Again, I fondly remember the French Quarter less than two weeks ago. There was neither a hint of winter nor downcast faces. Beignets to eat and Cafe Dumonde. I have been to the famous restaurant known for its beignets. Confectioner’s sugar never tasted so good.

Lake Pontchartrain was visible during our Amtrak ride. I recalled Hurricane Katrina and the terrible flooding. We passed the Superdome, and again I thought of Katrina.

The dignity of the French Quarter could be felt. A proud, loving people inhabit the place. People focused on art. A place to be yourself without fear. Music that reaches the Angels. Hope of acceptance and peace.

Food from Heaven. Dishes are special and unique. We made a return engagement to our favorite restaurant, Coops, from our last visit in 2013. In 2013, we stood in line at the door, and a woman allowed people in a few at a time. We sat at the bar, and I asked the bartender if he made a good Dirty Martini. He responded that he made a very bad Dirty Martini. I quickly ordered the Bad Dirty. The food was wonderful earlier this month. I had fried oysters. Our server asked if we wanted a drink for the road.

It was a common sight to see happy people carrying their cocktails with them on the sidewalks and streets of the Quarter. They danced with them, expertly held in their hands. The French Quarter is an oasis in a rapidly changing nation. A place to laugh from your soul.

Have you ever had a Soul Laugh? A Laugh where your entire person rejoices. A Soul Laugh caused by a sense of place as a valuable human being and pleasure in your place in the Human Family. A glimpse into Heaven and the joy of seeing the Angels dancing to the jazz music playing.

The Old Man has observed people happy for no fiscal or material reason. People who greet the day’s events with laughter and mirth. Poor People who wink and make you feel comfortable. Happy folks who do not see a stranger because all are their family. Those who are not obsessed with the ladder of success. Many who never attained more than a rung or two. They are interested in the Stairway to Heaven. They commune with the Angels who constantly use the Stairway. God is looking at the Heavenly Ladder and often comes down to have a Soul Laugh with his family.

So we wait for the snowstorm. We have seen snowstorms before, but this one is forecast to be particularly severe. Each update is worse than the one before. There were long lines at the Grocery Store yesterday. We typically receive some snow each winter, but it is often not significant. This looks like the real thing.

A big change from the French Quarter just over a week ago. The weather was 70 degrees or more, and the living was easy. We mozed about with a feeling of spring. A bit surreal for midwesterners from Illinois who are accustomed to cold temperatures in winter. We were in another universe where music and dancing were the norm in a warm atmosphere. There was joy on a normal day. Singing on every corner. Hope in the manifestation of mirth.

MJ says next time we will stay an additional night. I wholeheartedly agree! Although many people told us of the historic snowfall New Orleans experienced a year ago in January. The City was shut down due to the unexpected event. Artists painted fine art to commemorate the 100-year event. Photographers took photos. They reflected on January 2025.

I saw our server at the Carousel Bar in a moment of rest and reflection. She said that she was enjoying the moment with fewer people and thinking of Mardi Gras. She went on to say that it is insane and a sensory overload. The French Quarter is full of tourists who are experiencing Mardi Gras.

A friendly woman placed a cream under MJ’s eye to illustrate how it tightens puffiness. When MJ saw her later during our French Quarter excursion, she identified the wrong eye. Until that mistake, MJ was pondering whether to purchase a tube of the magic balm. A young man stopped Jonathon and me to tell us that he was going to run for President and that, ‘My black ass better vote for him.’ His presentation captivated me when he identified me as black. He continued to tell Jonathon and me that we were invited to the
White House if he won, for a barbecue dinner, and all we needed to do was bring a side dish with us. He received a small donation from the Old Man just for the entertainment value of his presentation.

Steve and I were caught in a snowstorm many years ago when we worked together for a Janitorial Service and were on our way to Zeigler to clean the corporate offices of Zeigler Coal Company. I told Steve that perhaps we should turn around, as all I could see out of the windshield of the 1962 Ford Fairlane was a white sheet. He assured me that we would be fine, whereupon we landed in the snowy ditch. We pushed the vintage car out of the ditch and turned for home.

When I was 20 years old, I walked to MJ’s trailer to dig her Maverick Car out of a historic snowstorm. I wanted to impress her with my affection for her and what a capable man I was. She made me hot chocolate, and I was rail-thin. That day, I knew I had made fiance points with my beloved.

The year after I dug MJ’s car out of the snow, I had been recently hired at Southern Illinois University @ Carbondale and chose to drive to work rather than miss being there if they were open. A colleague drove up in Building Services, where I had just pulled into the drive and found the door locked and one light bulb burning. Elbert persisted in knocking on the door and calling out that Brooks and Covington were reporting for duty. I had made a fifteen-mile journey through what appeared to be a snow covered field rather than highway #51. Then Elbert invited me to go home, get MJ and come to his house, which was seven miles more. I assured him that if I got back home, I would stay for the duration of the Storm.

Margo and Jeff stayed with us a year later when a snowstorm occurred. MJ fed them homemade biscuits, and they accompanied us to Eldorado on a snowy road to take Neva J home. We laughed a lot and bonded in our lifelong friendship. It was a fifty-mile journey, and we made it with the help of Neva J’s strong black coffee.

So I knew what the Uber Driver was talking about in French
Quarter regarding Snowstorms. Much snow provides a significant challenge. It also provides an opportunity for lifetime memories.

Time flies even in winter. Soon it will be a month since Christmas. Time marches on. The French Quarter took a place in the Old Man’s heart. I did not expect it. We visited New Orleans in May 2013. It was horribly hot and humid. We took the streetcars from our Airbnb, and our clothes were drenched with sweat. The Hotel Monteleone in the French Quarter changed our perspective and our level of enjoyment. The cooler weather and lower humidity helped make our recent journey more enjoyable. A wonderful way to begin the New Year. We want to do it again.

We spent our first day in the Quarter walking nearly five miles around the area. That may not sound like a lot, but for the Old Man, it was fierce. We watched a military ceremony at Jackson Square. The brass band was inspiring. A homeless man checked each outside trash can for food. There is joy and sadness living side by side.

People are reaching for Heaven. Their music is joyful. Their faces are happy with seeking eyes. There is a commitment to living life on their own terms. New Orleans is a diverse community. The spiritual etheral environment is compelling. Different is good, and the French Quarter proves it. We live in a homogenized country if we accept what many fundamentalists tell us. They tell us that we must be like them, and they have stolen the title Christian for only their narrow, biased views. Churches are loseing people because those who are looking for meaning and purpose do not see it in the gathering of politics/religion.

New Orleans is authentic. No masks of holiness over others. The common denominator is humanity. The point is love and acceptance. The Monteleone was our Cruise Ship of rest when the excitement became too much. I can see why Truman Capote and Eudora Welty liked it so much. The French Quarter is a release valve on the pressure cooker of life in Authoritarian Times. An oasis to be yourself and not fear the judgmental eyes of the religious and political elite. I am, in my unique humanity, so let us be friends.

Spirits watch their ancestors and their loved ones. Angels rejoice with the joyful noise of the jazz bands and singing. Ghosts dance alongside the party of happy people. There is a pulling away of the curtain that separates this world from the next. What is seen is beyond imagination or words.

The month of January doesn’t have the same amount of flash as November or December. For some of us that cannot tolerate the cold January and February…

January Celebrations

The cold air is warming for a day or two. The Woods were lovely and cold. The Old Man watched a Blue Jay, oblivious to being watched. He was about his business in the New Year. It is not the Arctic air as much as the wind. Thoughts hearken to New Orleans and the French Quarter. There is a culture dedicated to Joy. There is a joy in living that we often ignore. There are things to do and bills to pay. Joy is a reward we defer to when we retire or take a holiday. The majority of our time is spent putting our nose to the grindstone. We Americans especially the Baby Boomers, were raised to produce and not be slow about it. Keep your nose to the grindstone and avoid frivolity. Paul said that when he was a child, he enjoyed childish things, but when he became a man, he gave them up. Perhaps that is not sound advice. I marvelled when I passed thousands of students at Southern Illinois University and found most of the faces I saw were sullen, lonely, and sad. We have lost the plot.

Joy is the purpose and the meaning of life. The French Quarter taught me there is a better way. Spontaneous eruptions of joy occurred all over the French Quarter. It is invigorating to witness lifting of our human experience to the Angels. Happiness broke out across our Holiday in the Big Easy. We were met with smiles, song, music, and dancing. We had a server at the Bourbon Street Cafe who was original. She not only caused us to feel welcome but also made us participants in the Joy. The slowed-down acceptance of life as it presents itself was refreshing. A jazz band played on the corner. When we left the Bourbon Street Restaurant, where I enjoyed some wonderful parboiled oysters, we found ourselves in the midst of a street party. Many were singing and cheering while a young man danced with abandon in the middle of the street. He was in another world.

So the French Quarter felt a bit like a Cruise. The Hotel Monteleone had wonderful accommodations and music. Across the street was the Brass Monkey and a Fine Art Studio where MJ discovered a piece. Just down the road was Meyers Hat Shop, where I purchased a delightful Pork Pie Hat. Mr. Meyers was there at 101 years old and working behind the counter. Many ladies were having their photos taken with Mr. Meyers, the Hat Man. One woman told him how cute he was, to which he replied that he was not cute. The women laughed, knowing that he was. The Meyers’ Hat Store looked throughout the store for a Pork Pie Hat that would fit the Old Man. He found a perfect straw one. I wore it the remainder of my time in the French Quarter.

The relaxed feeling in the Hotel Monteleone was compelling. A luxorious Grandfather Clock was in the Lobby. People from all over the world were staying there. Old people middle aged and young are all enjoying together. At our Sunday Breakfast with musical accompaniment, an old couple sat next to us. The old gentleman was putting in his hearing aids, and I felt a kinship with them. I noticed on the Train that they were on board with us and wondered if we might have met.

The Old Man watched the Love Dance at the Hotel Bar. Couples rejoiced in the moment of Joy as they flirted with each other and sought companionship. Old Men flirting with young women, temporarily forgetting their place in life. A tall lady squatted on her knees and rocked and rolled to the jazz music. She was in Nirvana and worried not who was around her. Rest for the weary and hope for the hurting. An Oasis in the desert of authoritarian government and meanness towards those who do not fit the mold of the leader. The French Quarter breaks the mold of the Dictator and those who would control the lives of others.

We watch and wait. Our feelings are mixed. Where is home, and how do we get there? Home is a place in our hearts more than our heads. A place where we feel accepted and wanted. Often, we search for years without success. A vain attempt is made to fit into someone else’s definition of Home. They tell us that this is the home we want, while we feel underwhelmed. The Baby Boomer Generation’s definition of Home and success left subsequent generations wanting. A house in the suburbs and a two-car garage. Working from 9-5 each day for a year with a two-week break for vacation is not inspiring. Many Baby Boomers chose the road of protest and hallucinogens for an enlightened path toward Home. This path resulted in limited success and still much seeking. I was friends with several Jewish Hippies in the early 70s. Some found Home while others chose the corporate world, sad and disillusioned with their early quest.

The Old Man was at Home in New Orleans in the French Quarter. The Spirit of the place inspired him. The joy de vie was compelling. You could feel it in your bones. Singing and dancing, horns playing jazz, and smiles all around are hard to argue with on a Wednesday. Shopping for a Pork Pie Hat was fun and a mission from God. Sitting in Jackson Park was a delight as the artists set up their exhibits. The focus on joy rather than riches was intoxicating. I have followed Le Petite Theatre, where we saw Blithe Spirit Thursday night. I am thoroughly enjoying the Facebook posting from Le Petite Theatre regarding the performance that we saw just over a week ago. I have not enjoyed a theatrical performance more, and have seen two plays on Broadway. We also attended two performances in London’s West End, and still, Le Petite is my favorite. However, the enthusiasm of the audience reminded me of the West End. Theatre provides a welcoming of all people. It is home for thought and a venue for voice in all forms.

How shall we find Home when we have not found ourselves?
What makes your heart sing? What makes your soul leap? This is a good barometer and compass on your way Home. My journey has been many roads of discovery. Raised in a conservative family, I had to discover my quest for Home. My Christian faith became progressive, and I followed my heart when it came to accepting all people. When I began working at Southern Illinois University @ Carbondale, I was working with students from 70 countries. I was happier than I had ever been. I learned Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world. Red, yellow black, and white are precious in his sight. We learn from each other when we listen. We accept each other when our hearts are open.

The Bartender at the Carousel Bar in the Hotel Monteleone told us that we were good people and that he meets a lot of people. Perhaps he saw or felt our openness for others, no matter their color or creed or faith, or lack thereof. There is one requirement for a human being’s acceptance…breathing. MJ told me that the journey to New Orleans had transformed her and lifted her spirits. Her steps are lighter, and her outlook is brighter. I feel the Leaping of my soul when I think of the jazz band in the Hotel Monteleon. The feeling is rare, and the Old Man seeks more…please…

Cold weather has settled in for a winter’s nap. Christmas has come and gone, and the New Year is growing older. Thoughts of Valentine’s Day and Easter are dancing in our heads. One week ago, we were on Amtrak returning from New Orleans. The holiday we had experienced left us happy and full of wonder. People danced and sang for the joy of art. Hope reigned in the teeth of fear. Life thrived without a authoritarian influence or government. People reached for Heaven while their feet stood on Earth.

When I was a child, television and magazines advertised X-Ray Glasses. These glasses gave you the ability to see the bones of those you met. I think we had a bit of X-Ray spectacles on in the French Quarter. All was not as it seemed. There was a story behind the story. Spirits were watching the dancing, singing, and music. There was a stairway for the young and an escalator for the Golden Year Crowd between Heaven and Earth. Angels and humans ascending and descending while the jazz music played and the congregation danced.

‘I have never seen anything like this nor felt like I do,’ Jane said. ‘There is a joy and peace here that is encompassing,’ Jane continued. ‘The lovely woman singing on the corner has a voice like rushing water and a face of perfect joy,’ Jane observed. ‘I spoke to her before she began performing and she told me of the many hard years of her life, the suffering and tears,’ Jane noted with tears in her eyes. ‘Her singing is directly from her experiences,’ Jane whispered. ‘She told me that she found peace in the French Quarter among kind people,’ Jane said. ‘Here are the Seekers, the woman with the intoxicating voice told me,’ Jane said. ‘People do not judge each other, they seek to help and to live in harmony with Heaven,’ Jane mused.

‘I have been the Head Bartender at the Carousel Bar for the past ten years,’ Ezra said. ‘I see a lot of people, and many are unhappy or searching for peace outside their minds,’ Ezra continued. ‘Some seek the answers to their lack of place and unhappiness in another drink,’ Ezra noted. ‘They look for outside magic when magic comes first from within,’ Ezra explained. ‘Other people experience the leaping of their souls when the spirit hits them, and they rejoice for the communion between them and the angels,’ Ezra laughed with joy. ‘When you are touched by the spirit of God, you experience something extraordinary,’ Ezra smiled. ‘Then you see what it is all about and why you’re here,’ Ezra danced behind the bar.

‘The man danced in the street in a state of bliss,’ Chet said. ‘He was in another world,’ Chet continued. ‘The spirit of his art captivated those who watched him,’ Chet noted. ‘He seemed to be praying through his dance,’ Chet explained. ‘There are many ways to talk to God,’ Chet smiled.

It was a cold Woods Walk today. The Old Man has gone from spring to winter in a week. In fact, it got a little warm in New Orleans most of the time we were there. MJ reminded me of a week ago, when we took our tour of the National World War II Museum, and then we had the good fortune of obtaining four seats together at the Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone in the French Quarter. We had lain in wait for four seats together but were unsuccessful on a couple of occassions. The Carousel is historically famous. It completes a round of its rotation every twenty minutes. The happy, frenetic activity of the experience was fun.

I often speculate on the possibilities of alternate universes and found one in the French Quarter. People intrigue me. The people of the French Quarter fascinated me. There is a spiritual ambiance in the Quarter. A lack of concern for rhetoric and a focus on life. Have you ever danced in the street? They do in the French Quarter. The debate of what is truth and what is fake news melts in the hope of playing music and singing songs with the Angels as your audience.

Here we are, embarking on the journey through 2026. We knew it would be special in 2025. Time for a sense of place and something new. A year for traditions and new customs. We have instituted Sunday Game Day on the first Sunday of each month. Also, a plan to play Bingo on Wednesday evenings. Plans are in the works for a return to the French Quarter. It is a place we had fun, and that is no small thing for the Old Man.

Life is a magic mysterious journey. We live it once and should seek to understand it from the Angel’s View.